


Taken By The Sound

by Sasha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fever, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sick John, Smut, beginning of relationship, exhausted john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16220798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasha/pseuds/Sasha
Summary: He wakes up a few hours later, everything feels too loud, too heavy, too close. The duvet weighs a ton on his exhausted body. The grey afternoon light coming from the window hurts his sore eyes beneath his eyelids. Something hot and scratchy sits in his throat, transforming his every breath into a painful wheeze.John caught a bad cold. That's it. I'm so bad at summaries, apologies...





	Taken By The Sound

**Author's Note:**

> This story stayed a forgotten WIP for months, I'm glad I finally managed to finish it.
> 
> It was betaed by the lovely @the_hopeless_existentialist, thank you again for your patience and dedication ♥

John does not get sick easily. He will get headaches or a bit of a funky stomach from time to time, but nothing that a few tablets can’t take care of.  
So when he wakes up with his head feeling heavy and his throat painfully swollen, John is a bit surprised. He adds a spoonful of honey to his morning tea and swallows a tablet, while keeping a bleary eye on the toaster.  
As John leaves for the clinic, Sherlock is just coming out of his bedroom, wild curls around his still sleepy face. He grunts at the doctor’s “good morning” and makes a beeline for the bathroom. He does not see the feverish look on John’s face, nor hear the hoarseness in his voice.  


It’s almost two in the afternoon when Sarah finally forces John into a cab with the stern order not to come back until he’s fully recovered. John wants to point out how ridiculous it is since he’s just feeling a little tired, but he can’t quite manage to form the words before the cab pulls off.  


The stairs stretch up above him. Even when he had his walking stick, they never seemed so high and so difficult to climb. John doesn’t stop when he reaches the first floor. He keeps going, up to his bedroom, not trusting himself to make it to his bed if he takes a break on the landing.

When he wakes up a few hours later, everything feels too loud, too heavy, too close. The duvet weighs a ton on his exhausted body. The grey afternoon light coming from the window hurts his sore eyes beneath his eyelids. Something hot and scratchy sits in his throat, transforming his every breath into a painful wheeze. With a groan, John rolls onto his side, away from the window, eyes squinting towards his bedside table where his phone sits.

[from: John]  
‘need water’

Texting takes forever, fingers numb and clumsy, slipping on the screen of his phone. With a bit of luck, Sherlock is downstairs, he will check his phone immediately, and come up with a glass of cool water. John pushes his face under the pillow, snorting to himself. His aching body is not ready to get up and go downstairs even though the thirst is clawing at his throat.

Sherlock pokes his shoulder and John opens his eyes with difficulty. He must have dozed off again. He reaches for the glass of water his friend brought with him and gulps it down, sighing at the relief in his throat. He rolls back under the covers, his body suddenly covered in goosebumps.  


His room is dark and silent when he wakes up again. He isn’t shaking anymore, but his limbs feel like lead and every movement is painful. His eyes are scratchy and aching. He craves more sleep but his minds feels too jittery and he can’t seem to settle. After rolling around his sheets, the springs squeaking in protest, for a good fifteen minutes, his door opens and a grumpy Sherlock drags himself to the bed.

“Move over.” He mumbles as he slides under the blankets.  


John obeys, trying his best not to tense up. They haven’t shared a bed that much since the...incident, just a couple of times, fumbling in the middle of the night.  
Sherlock’s cold skin makes him jump when a hand creeps its way across his belly.

“What are you…”

There is no answer, the act obvious as Sherlock gently strokes his torso and sides. His hand is cold and dry against John’s overheated and clammy skin. The contrast is perfect and the doctor sighs as he feels himself relaxing under the touch.  
Sherlock’s large hand pushes his pyjama bottoms down to his thighs, and slides between them to cup his half-hard cock. John turns his face into his friend’s neck, his breathing harsh around the pain in his throat. The dark curls are the only thing he can see, his world narrowing to the warmth of the body against him and the smell of shampoo and skin.

The slick slide down his cock is all John can think about. How it feels almost too tight, too wet, too much for him to breathe properly. The pad of Sherlock’s thumb pushes slowly under the slippery head of his cock, circling against his frenulum, and John wimpers, the sound tearing free from his sore throat. He has forgotten about his aching joints, his inflamed throat, the fever making his head pound. All that remains is Sherlock’s tight fist around him, and the smell of his wild curls against his cheek.

“Does it feel good?”

John's head feels full of cotton wool as Sherlock's voice resonates around him. The words themselves are lost on him, pleasure and fever making his mind deliciously blank. His friend’s nose slides under his ear, along his jaw, a cold stroke on his too warm skin.

“John…” mumbles Sherlock, his already lazy movements on John’s cock slowing down.

He pants heavily, swallows down around the painful scratchiness in his throat, and nods.

“Yes… y-es, you berk.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the deep chuckle against his adam apple or the tightening fingers under the crown of his cock, but the things that Sherlock is doing... John whines and jerk his hips up.  
The following moments are lost to him, everything jumbled together in blurry, warm desperation. 

When he thinks back on this - days, months, years later - he remembers the sounds more than anything else; the wet noise of Sherlock’s fist around him, sliding back and forth over the sensitive head of his cock, the detective’s heavy breathing, his own overwhelmed moans.  
He does not remember coming. He does, however, recall with bizarre precision the softness of Sherlock’s lips on his cheek before he finally falls back asleep.

The next day a glass of cool water and his tablets are waiting for him on the bedside table. Sherlock is fast asleep next to him, his long and naked body wrapped in his sheet. After drinking half the water, John rolls over to his friend.His nose still feels cold when John nuzzles against him as he falls back asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Virile” by The Blaze.
> 
> Thank you for reading my story! You can find me on tumblr @thefrenchweirdone.


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